


Customs

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Blow Jobs, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:51:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes Doranbolt thinks his favorite part of the day is watching Lahar get undressed." Lahar comes home, and Doranbolt helps him relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Customs

Sometimes Doranbolt thinks his favorite part of the day is watching Lahar get undressed.

It’s not the amount of skin that ends up on display for his appreciation, although he is absolutely a fan of that as well. It’s not entirely the way Lahar’s posture relaxes from forced perfection into more natural relaxation as he sheds the various pieces of his uniform. It’s not even the fact that Doranbolt knows where they will probably end up, that he’s sprawled across the bed with more in mind than simple comfort. It’s that watching Lahar take off the half-dozen pieces that make up his official uniform is a little bit like watching a dance, that the other man’s homecoming is a routine that Doranbolt never entirely learns enough to get bored of it, that Doranbolt can watch Lahar’s mouth soften into the threat of a smile instead of the firm frown of his professional demeanor as his uniform comes apart.

He doesn’t think even Lahar realizes that happens, that his lips relax and unbend from the perpetual expectation of disappointment he carries around with him the same way he carries the weight of his official cloak. But Doranbolt knows, Doranbolt can see Lahar turn from unit leader into a real person before his very eyes on a daily basis. It’s like seeing the other man become a human instead of a cutout, like seeing his heart start to beat and his blood come warm with life. By the time Lahar is down to just his undershirt and slacks he’s visibly smiling, the lines of tension are fading from his forehead and the stress is falling out of his wrists. When he turns to look at Doranbolt lying across the bed Doranbolt can see the very corners of his eyes go soft even before his smile flashes brighter and amused.

“Are you enjoying the show?” he asks. The tension under the words makes them amusement instead of actual irritation, and Doranbolt doesn’t so much as stutter before he grins, brings a hand up so he can prop his chin on his palm.

“Absolutely,” he admits without a trace of apology in his face or voice. “I love watching my boyfriend take his clothes off.”

“Pervert,” Lahar says, but he’s still smiling, and he’s reaching for the tie holding his hair up against the back of his head. Doranbolt’s eyes track the motion, draw tense with focus as Lahar works it free. There’s a moment of expectant pause as the tie comes loose, as if Lahar’s hair is waiting for permission to fall; then the other man shakes his head slightly, and the loops tumble down across his shoulders, and the transformation into Doranbolt’s Lahar is complete.

“Come  _here_ ,” Doranbolt tries to say. The words come out clearly but the tone drops low and rough, turns the statement into more of a growl than he intended. Lahar glances back at him -- his eyes seem brighter, now, in comparison to the sheet of dark hair across the white of his undershirt -- and when he smiles Doranbolt is moving before he’s even heard what the other is saying.

“ _Pervert_ ,” Lahar offers again, and then Doranbolt’s on his feet and moving in towards him, reaching out to close his fingers at Lahar’s shoulder and pull him in closer. The other man doesn’t resist in spite of his words, he’s turning in to Doranbolt’s touch and angling his chin up for the expected kiss, and Doranbolt can feel the tension of his repressed smile when his lips press in against the corner of Lahar’s mouth.

It’s easy to fall into alignment with Lahar, when he’s himself. In his uniform Doranbolt has to adopt a stiff professionalism that is a struggle, straighten his shoulders and harden his spine to the point of pain, until by the time he gets home his entire body aches from the strain. But now Lahar is malleable, warm and responsive and turning his head in to chase the pressure of Doranbolt’s mouth against his lips. Doranbolt’s moving away, not from any unwillingness to let Lahar actually kiss him properly but just because the pale line of jaw and throat is far too tempting to pass up. Lahar reverses his motion when Doranbolt’s mouth brushes the warm skin just below his ear, tips his head away so Doranbolt can reach up, sweep the heavy fall of hair back and away before settling his mouth in at the curve of neck into shoulder just at the top of Lahar’s shirt. A gentle hand brushes against his forehead, a thumb unconsciously seeking out the pattern of the scar alongside his eye, and Doranbolt shuts his eyes to let Lahar’s touch take over his attention.

For a minute there’s no sound but the steady rhythm of their breathing, relaxation still fitting itself into Lahar’s shoulders and satisfaction dragging slow in Doranbolt’s inhales. But when Doranbolt pushes the curtain of Lahar’s hair back another inch Lahar tips his head farther, lets his exhale catch into the faintest of whimpers far back in his throat, and Doranbolt’s thoughts go warm and shadowed with intention.

“You’re tense,” he says. The hand at Lahar’s hair drops down, lower, so he can press his fingers into the perpetual knot just under the other’s shoulderblade. Lahar leans in closer, his other hand coming up to balance himself on Doranbolt’s hip, and the sound he makes is such a purring moan it  _must_  be deliberate. It sets fire to Doranbolt’s blood, rocks him in closer against the resistance of Lahar’s body, and from the way fingers catch tight at Doranbolt’s hip the response is far from one-sided.

“Are you offering to relax me?” Lahar asks, and that  _is_  deliberate, all half-lidded suggestion until Doranbolt doesn’t have to so much as lift his head to actually see the other man’s expression to know.

“Sure am,” he agrees. Being coy is Lahar’s game, not his, and there’s no protest from the other when Doranbolt steps backward, drawing Lahar with him towards the bed as he goes. It’s only a few steps, easy to traverse without turning around, and Doranbolt’s free hand is seeking out the edge of Lahar’s undershirt, sliding the cloth up to bare the sharp edge of hipbone and the heat of exposed skin. By the time the edge of the bed hits the back of his knees his fingers are halfway up Lahar’s back, uncoiling tension in their wake until Lahar is nearly boneless against Doranbolt’s shoulder, until all it takes is a hint of a lean before they’re both toppling backwards onto the mattress. Lahar coughs an almost-protest of surprise, but he lands half atop Doranbolt, and when he pushes himself up to look down into the other’s face his mouth is temptingly close to a smile.

“Manhandling isn’t my definition of relaxation,” he points out, adjusting the glasses knocked askew by their fall. The motion is professional but the way he’s biting his lip to repress amusement is not. Doranbolt lets Lahar’s hair go, grabs a fistful of his shirt instead, and when he rolls over Lahar lets himself be dragged along, falls back to the sheets under Doranbolt’s insistent hands. His smile breaks free as Doranbolt clutches at the bottom edge of his shirt and starts to push it up to bare the other’s skin, his shoulders go more relaxed even before Doranbolt leans back so he can tug Lahar’s shirt up over his head. Lahar emerges with his glasses off-center again, his hair catching in the collar of the shirt and falling in a curtain across his shoulders as the fabric comes free, but his eyes are silvered over with delight, pleasure as evident in the soft flutter of his lashes as in the tension at his mouth.

“Just lie still,” Doranbolt orders. The tone feels good in his throat, the inversion of their usual roles titillating in its own right and the more so because Lahar obeys instantly, lets his arms drop heavy to the mattress so he’s spread out like an offering for Doranbolt’s eyes and hands and mouth. His skin is warm, his eyes are soft, and Doranbolt lets himself take a moment to just  _look_ , to appreciate the deep indent of collarbone against Lahar’s shoulder and the unthinking curl of his fingers against the sheets. His skin is pale from lack of sun, shadowed purple-blue across his hipbone and the indent at the base of his throat; Doranbolt can see his pulse fluttering just under his jaw, can see the deliberate inhale in the shift of his chest and his instinctive swallow in the motion of his throat.

He leans down, presses his mouth into the dip just between Lahar’s collarbones. Lahar’s skin is warmer even than it looks, hot under his mouth, and Doranbolt can feel the way the other’s breathing catches sharply under his lips even before he opens his mouth to let his tongue slide across in an offering of moisture to the warmth of Lahar’s skin. There’s a stutter of a laugh, a hand coming up reflexively to attempt purchase on Doranbolt’s too-short hair. The contact makes him purr, draws a chuckle out against Lahar’s skin as Doranbolt shifts his weight to move farther down, to draw his lips down the center of Lahar’s chest. He can feel the other man’s breathing, can feel the rhythm dropping out-of pace when his teeth scrape gently over skin or he pauses to suck an almost-bruise over the bottom edge of Lahar’s ribcage. Brushing his fingers across a nipple gets him a hiss on an inhale, more deliberate pressure brings Lahar’s hips rocking up towards him; Doranbolt grins, low against hipbone where Lahar can feel but not see him, stalls his steady downward motion while his fingers catch and pinch at the other man. Lahar whines, that time, arches up enough that Doranbolt has to push down at the other’s thigh to keep him flat on the bed while he flicks with his thumb. There’s another desperate inhale, bleeding over into actual frustration, and Doranbolt moves his head down another few inches before Lahar can voice a coherent protest, fits his mouth in against taut fabric and exhales hard. Lahar’s hips rock up off the mattress, the resistance of his cock behind the fabric bumping up against Doranbolt’s parted lips beore the other man has a chance to even think about pulling back. He lets his teasing lapse, slides his fingers down to hold steady at Lahar’s hips while he opens his mouth wider, sighs harder still so Lahar’s breathing chokes on a desperate laugh.

“This is  _not_  relaxing,” he grates, the tension in his throat breaking each word into a separate criticism. Doranbolt laughs, lifts his head to look up so he can see the way Lahar is carefully not looking at him, the way his mouth is shaping around a frown of distraction.

“I know.” Doranbolt slides back up across Lahar’s body, replaces his lips at the other’s collarbone. He can feel the sharp arch of the other’s spine pulling resistance into the line of his shoulder, the shiver of response to the heat of his mouth as his fingers close on the damp fabric at the front of Lahar’s pants. “It will be.”

“Promises, promises,” Lahar snaps. He  _sounds_  irritated, his voice dragging razor-edged on the words, and his frown is still clinging to his lips. But he’s not pulling away, making no attempt to push Doranbolt’s lips away from his skin, and as the button of his slacks slides free there’s a tiny upward jerk as his determination to be angry skids out into instinctive response. Lahar’s hand brushes against Doranbolt’s hair with what Doranbolt is pretty sure is supposed to be more anxious encouragement than the soft affection that is actually conveyed, his breath huffs out in expectation as Doranbolt gets his pants open entirely. The other man comes up higher, presses a deliberate kiss in against the flushed warmth of Lahar’s skin, just under the line of the frames of his glasses. Lahar turns, tips his head in with his lips parted like he’s expecting a proper kiss, and Doranbolt humors him, gives him the pressure of his mouth for a moment. Lahar’s breathing is coming quicker when he pulls back so he can tug the loosened pants off the other man’s hips, and this time he doesn’t offer even the wordless protest of a whimper before arching up to offer what assistance he can. The cloth slips off easily, as if it’s as anxious to bare Lahar’s skin as Doranbolt is himself, and then there’s just Lahar, translucent-pale skin and ink-dark hair spilled around his shoulders and the smirk on his lips, the edge in his eyes when Doranbolt looks up to his face.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks, his tone saying it’s intended as sarcasm.

Doranbolt grins, lopsided to match the considering tilt of his head. “Very much.”  _His_  voice is appreciative, rough with sincerity as Lahar’s never is. Lahar goes quiet instead, silent and wide-eyed behind the cover of his glasses; Doranbolt watches the tiny movement of his eyelashes, the wordless part of his lips a precursor to the flush that creeps out over his cheeks. A moment later Lahar closes his mouth, shuts his eyes to block out Doranbolt’s gaze, but it’s too late, Doranbolt’s seen everything he wanted to see already.

“You’re beautiful,” Doranbolt offers, more a comment than a compliment. It’s objectively true, absent any connection to the flush of heat under his skin, the anticipation of what is to come when he drags his fingers against Lahar’s waist and watches the shiver of response in his wake. Lahar’s radiant warm, his skin flushing hotter than even the relaxed warmth in Doranbolt’s fingertips, and he only gets warmer as Doranbolt drags his touch lower, across the crest of hipbone and down quick over the smooth skin of thigh into the hot inside curve. Lahar’s still frowning in concentration but his knee slips wide at Doranbolt’s touch, impulsively responsive without any connection to the resistance he is still desperately trying to offer.

It’s not like he can muster even the appearance of such, not really, not now that the cover of his clothes is gone. All Lahar’s skin is stained pink with expectation, all his body trembling with the humanity he tries so hard to bury behind cold professionalism. Doranbolt can feel it under his lips when he lowers his mouth to Lahar’s skin, can hear the choking inhale when he touches his tongue into the dip of the other’s stomach. It’s all but inevitable, that he should move lower, skip the last few inches so the next time his mouth comes down it’s at an angle so his lips can catch and slide over the hot length of the other man’s cock.

Lahar’s exhale sounds like a sigh, sounds like resignation and capitulation at once. Doranbolt can feel him move to push up on his elbows; when he glances up Lahar’s half-upright, staring down as Doranbolt slides another inch lower, and his eyes are soft, warm and dark and shadowed over with want to match the damp motion of his tongue against his lower lip as he watches. Doranbolt’s mouth pulls tight into an almost-smile, his grin trying to break free in spite of the obstruction to his lips, but he lingers for another moment so he can draw his tongue deliberately slowly up against Lahar’s length, can watch the involuntary flutter of Lahar’s eyelashes and the work of reaction in his throat as Doranbolt comes up and away.

“Beautiful,” he says again, turning away before Lahar has a chance to compose himself into a response. He can hear Lahar sitting up entirely as he goes to retrieve the bottle of lube, the huff of his breath and the soft sound of fingers brushing a heavy sheet of hair aside. When Doranbolt turns back Lahar’s watching him, his eyes fixed on Doranbolt’s shoulders with more appreciation than pure anticipation. His gaze lingers even as Doranbolt comes back, catching at the lines of his shirt until Doranbolt’s not surprised to have Lahar’s fingers closing on the bottom of his shirt as soon as he’s within arm’s reach.

“Take this off.” Lahar’s not giving him a chance to resist or obey, either one. Doranbolt lifts his arms, doesn’t fight as Lahar’s fingers collect handfuls of cloth and ease the shirt up off over his head. It comes off right-side out, a trick Doranbolt’s never been able to manage on his own, but for once Lahar doesn’t pause to ensure the clothing ends up in the laundry. This time he drops it, lets it puddle to the ground as he so rarely does, and that is better proof of his desire than even the speed with which his hold closes at Doranbolt’s hips to start working his pajama pants off his body. The loose fabric slides down easily; Lahar is letting it go even before Doranbolt has kicked his feet free, reaching back out to loop his arms around the other’s waist so his glasses press the edge of cold metal against warm skin.

“Take those off,” Doranbolt suggests, leaning in over the bed so Lahar tips back and he’s taking the other’s weight for a moment.

“I like seeing you,” Lahar protests. His mouth is right up against Doranbolt’s skin, so close his words brush sensation against the other’s chest.

“You’re not seeing anything right now,” Doranbolt points out. Lahar lets go, drops back flat on the sheets, and Doranbolt sits up again so he can open the bottle warming in his hold. Lahar’s eyes are dark behind the smudged glass, making promises and suggestions without even needing the implication written into the angle of his legs, the little invitation in the tilt of his hips. Doranbolt resists the urge to dip his head to pick up where he left off, keeps the cool slick of his fingers away from the hard resistance of Lahar’s cock; it’s worth it for the way Lahar huffs when Doranbolt’s fingers touch against his entrance with no warning, the expectant gasp in his throat to match his hips coming up off the sheets entirely for a moment.

“Hurry up,” Lahar snaps, almost on top of Doranbolt’s teasing growl of “ _Patience_.” Doranbolt spreads his free hand against Lahar’s thigh, lifts his leg wider and higher than it strictly needs to be while the other hisses and reminds, “Relaxing, you’re supposed to be  _relaxing_  me.”

“I will,” Doranbolt soothes. Lahar’s holding very still for all his vocal protests; it makes it easy to push forward smoothly, to sink a pair of fingers an inch into the other man. The pressure is almost too much, Doranbolt suspects, and from the way Lahar’s fingers tighten on the sheets he isn’t wrong. But Lahar shuts his eyes instead of grimacing, his mouth opens on words instead of a groan, and when he speaks it’s to repeat “Hurry  _up_ ” with the grating sound of shattered control that usually takes Doranbolt hours to draw out of him.

Doranbolt’s eyebrows go up in surprise, but he doesn’t say anything. In the end he’s not much more patient than Lahar, and if the other man  _wants_  him to go faster he’s not keen on resisting. His fingers slide in another inch and Lahar lets out a breath that sounds like a whimper in his throat.

“Do you want me to --” Doranbolt starts. He intends to ask if it’s too much, if he should stop, even though he has a good enough idea of what Lahar will say that the words really are teasing, this time. But Lahar’s speaking over him, “ _Don’t stop_ ” so rough and desperate that Doranbolt shudders, can feel the flush of response burn all over his body as he obeys and thrusts his fingers in as far as they’ll go. Lahar chokes an inhale, trembles so Doranbolt can feel the tremor running through his body. His eyes are still shut, his mouth open around how hard he’s breathing, now, and Doranbolt doesn’t wait for permission, doesn’t tease even by delay now. The second thrust is smoother than the first, all at once instead of in bursts, and Lahar sighs like he’s appreciative, now, instead of strained. His fingers are going loose on the sheets, his hands falling into the elegance of relaxation instead of the desperate grip he had before, and Doranbolt is breathing faster in anticipation, catching Lahar’s fading anxiety as if it’s contagious.

“Lahar,” he says. His voice is steadier than he was worried it would be, it makes him sound calm and reasonable instead of flushed and shaking with want. Lahar doesn’t answer for a moment, doesn’t have as much as a flicker of expression to indicate he’s heard, and when Doranbolt repeats himself it comes out lower, grating and rough. “ _Lahar_.”

Lahar opens his eyes, tips his chin down so he can meet Doranbolt’s gaze, and that’s it, that’s as much as Doranbolt can resist. He’s sliding his fingers free even as he’s speaking, words spilling out so fast they’re barely coherent at all. “That’s it, right now, are you ready?” He’s wrapping his fingers around himself, stroking slippery liquid up across his length, but Lahar is angling his legs wider, shifting out of Doranbolt’s half-forgotten hold so he can arch himself further off the sheets.

“What have I been  _saying_?” His eyes are half-lidded, his arms spread wide and relaxed across the sheets. Doranbolt would pause to appreciate the view -- it’s rare to have Lahar so utterly unselfconscious, spread out like this for him -- but, well, he  _does_  have Lahar spread out for him, and the temptation is too much. He’s leaning in, his arm trembling with adrenaline until he locks his elbow out to brace himself over the other man. Lahar is watching his face, the dark of his eyes half-covered by eyelashes until Doranbolt thinks it might be on purpose, Lahar taking advantage of his physical appeal as he almost never does.

It doesn’t matter. Lahar’s breathing as hard as Doranbolt is, is just as hard as the other man is, and when Doranbolt lines himself up and starts to slowly push forward Lahar’s sigh is loud enough to drown out Doranbolt’s own breathless groan. His legs hook around Doranbolt’s hips, draw the other man closer as Lahar tips himself up higher, presses in so close the hard heat of his length brushes against the taut line of Doranbolt’s stomach. Doranbolt growls, raw instinct tearing at his throat, and gives up the steadier balance of two hands for one so he can grab at Lahar’s back, hold him up at that steep angle while he thrusts himself forward. Lahar’s head goes back, his throat makes a sound more of a wail than a moan, and Doranbolt would stop except for the way Lahar’s grabbing for his shoulder, pulling him closer by the awkward angle of his legs.

“Lahar,” he says instead. It doesn’t come out like the question he intends it as, but the fingers seeking purchase at his shoulder tighten in answer anyway, and that’s really all he needed. They can’t keep their precarious balance for more than a moment; Lahar drops back to the bed, Doranbolt lowers his own angle to match, but it’s a fair trade. With two hands on the bed Doranbolt can steady himself, can focus on setting a rhythm to his thrusts so he can keep Lahar’s gaze glazed over into heat and shadow, and after a moment Lahar’s free hand slides down between them to close around his own length. Sometimes Doranbolt sacrifices balance and some part of his rhythm for the satisfaction of having Lahar jerking up into  _his_  hand, but there’s a pleasure to be had from this too, from tipping his chin down so he can watch Lahar’s grip steady, tighten, start to stroke up over himself with those same delicate fingers. He’s slick with precome even before he starts, his thumb catching at the liquid to smooth out the slide of his fingers, and for a minute Doranbolt is lost in the rhythm, starts shifting his own pace unconsciously to match.

“My eyes are up here.” Lahar’s voice is sharp, edged with at least a good imitation of true frustration even though when Doranbolt raises his gaze his eyes are still smoky and his lips are damp from the pressure of his tongue.

“I was appreciating the view.” His voice isn’t sharp at all. It’s slow and purring and breathless at the edges, broken enough that Lahar’s mouth quirks into a smile.

“You’ll make me self-conscious,” is what he says, but what he does is arch up off the bed again, angle his hips up to meet the downward thrust of Doranbolt so the other man slides in faster and deeper than he can manage alone. Doranbolt groans, his vision fading out for a moment, but he can still hear the shuddering sound of Lahar’s breathing sticking in his throat and feel the way his strokes fall out-of-pace.

“You’re not self-conscious,” Doranbolt manages. Lahar keeps his angle, this time, doesn’t fall back even when Doranbolt thrusts again, sinking as deep as he can into the heat of Lahar’s body. “You tie your hair up and you hide in all those layers but you  _know_  how gorgeous you are.”

“It’s a  _uniform_ ,” Lahar protests, but his voice is weak and Doranbolt just talks over him, gaining volume in exchange for air.

“You walk around like -- like that all  _day_  and I --” He’s thrusting faster, his pace is falling apart, but Lahar’s speeding to match, his fingers moving quicker over himself. “I want you like this all the -- all day, Lahar, it’s all I can think about.”

“That explains so much.” It’s supposed to be teasing but Lahar’s  gaze is slipping out of focus, he’s breathing so hard Doranbolt can barely catch the words.

“And then you come home and --” Faster, sharper, Lahar’s coming farther off the bed and he’s staring at Doranbolt with the unseeing intensity of inevitable pleasure. “You take everything  _off_  and I --” Doranbolt dips his head, presses his mouth in against Lahar’s so he can catch the whimpering moan in the other’s throat. “I can see  _you_ , it’s so.” His wrist is pressed into Lahar’s shoulder, his other hand is braced against the other’s waist. “It’s  _irresistible_.”

Doranbolt’s not sure Lahar can even hear him anymore. The other’s inhales are shattered out of rhythm, high and panting in his throat, every one thrumming through the tension building in his body so Doranbolt can feel it everywhere they touch.

“D-doran--” Lahar’s choking on his name, it’s stuttering into incoherence.

“ _Lahar_ ,” Doranbolt says, as if it’s a prayer, as if it’s an order, and he snaps his hips forward. Lahar’s fingers jerk tight, the tension along his spine collapses into shuddering relief, and Doranbolt’s mouth is on his just as he whimpers in satisfaction. There’s a splash of liquid heat against Doranbolt’s skin, the jerky pull of Lahar’s hand for the last few strokes, and Doranbolt’s moving again, want rising under his skin until it burns off the last of his patience. It never takes long, with Lahar trembling around him and breathing so hard every exhale sounds like a moan; Lahar’s only just blinking himself back into focus, just reaching up to brush his fingers against Doranbolt’s cheek, when the other feels the anticipation on the horizon draw back and form itself into the present. Lahar’s touch is warm at the scars across his face, Lahar’s gaze is soft on him, and Doranbolt finally shuts his eyes, and takes a breath, and lets the heat rush over him.

He’s forming the shape of Lahar’s name when he comes back to awareness, like he always is. He’s not sure if he said it aloud -- Lahar’s never told him one way or the other -- but the other man is smiling at him, soft and sweet and sincere, so in any case the meaning came through. It should be enough, that they both know, but there’s still tension clinging to Doranbolt’s shoulders when he lets his weight drop down over the other’s body to pin him gently against the softness of the mattress. He takes a breath, like he always does, forms the words in his head ready to fall from his lips.

“I love you.”

It is Lahar who says it first, the relaxation of pleasure coaxing easy truth from him as Doranbolt can so rarely manage at other times. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is, as it always is, a shock to be reminded of this apparent truth. Doranbolt smiles, and turns his head, and presses his mouth against the warmth of Lahar’s palm.

“I love you too.”


End file.
